


It's Hard To Fall Out Of A Family Tree

by Emamel



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, Jack is great with kids, The other guardians not so much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:47:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emamel/pseuds/Emamel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After three-hundred years of watching over generation after generation of this little family of mortals, Jack really thought nothing could phase him. His bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which traumatic experiences are unknowingly repeated, and Jack finds a purpose

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt over at the ROTG Kinkmeme: http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/2200.html?thread=2448536#cmt2448536

The ground beneath him is frozen solid beneath bare feet, and Jack Frost wiggles his toes, watching the delicate filigree patterns that make up his namesake spread around him. For weeks now, everything has been coated in snow, and ice, and frost – Jack knows that he has played no small part in that, freezing almost anything that wound up in his path with the kind of desperation that was born of very particular fears. Now, though, he has finally calmed, finally stilled and come to a complete stop; resting against his staff and staring around him as though seeing the world through his own eyes for the very first time again.

It is midwinter, and Jack is twenty years out of the ice.

Twenty years of this in-between state of limbo, of peering at the world through a sheet of ice just thin enough to see through but still plenty strong enough to keep him separate from it, always, always left behind in the cold.

As if it can sense his thoughts, the North wind curls around him, cold enough that even Jack’s skin has the illusion of warmth in comparison. The winds all adore Jack, and are always willing to do anything that he asks of them, but of the four, it is the North wind that secretly holds something of a special place in Jack’s heart. The South wind, though pleasant and gentle, is warm and tickles Jack’s skin unpleasantly as winter comes to an end and the warmer seasons begin, leaving Jack lethargic and sore. The East wind is a fierce, wild thing, as much if not more so than the North, but with less regard for Jack, or anyone for that matter; the West wind is fickle and uncertain, and Jack can never be entirely certain of its moods.

Jack smiles slightly, little more than a twitch of his lips, and lets the North wind buoy him up, lifting him a few feet above the ground and cradling him there. Still, even after twenty years, he doesn’t understand how it is that he can be picked up and tossed around on the breeze like a snowflake, but he finds mostly that he doesn’t much care. He drops a couple of inches when the North wind dissipates, but the South quickly takes its place, bringing with it peals of childish laughter. Jack stiffens for a moment before coasting gently to one of the taller trees surrounding him, where he settles into a loose crouch, watching the path beneath him.

A child, no older than five, stumbles up the path, wrapped in layers of homespun cloth, shrieking delightedly as she goes. Behind her is a second child, this one older, on the cusp of the teenage years, and it seems that the two of them are playing some form of chase-and-tag game with the oldest of the pair perfectly happy to sabotage his own efforts and allow his young companion the glory.

Mouth pulling up at the corners, Jack flits from tree to tree as he watches the young pair hurtle through the snow, laughing when the winds carry the sound of their teasing to him. Without noticing, he drifts lower and lower until he is racing side-by-side with the children, his laughter mingling with theirs until he can almost forget that he isn’t one of them, not included in their game, invisible to the both of them.

So immersed in the game that he dances on the fringes of is he, that he doesn’t immediately notice their surroundings; or perhaps more specifically, the pond that the girl has stumbled onto. Oblivious, Jack continues onwards until a resounding _crack_ sends chills ( _except that can’t be right because Jack doesn’t feel the cold, not really_ ) to his very core – he swings around. The winds sense his distress and pick up in reply, whistling through the trees to make them creak, and all around Jack there is a terrible cacophony pierced only by the cracking of the ice beneath the girl’s feet.

The boy cries out to her, taking cautious steps onto the thin ice, and the girl seems capable of little more than shivering and weeping in abject terror. 

Something inside of Jack snaps.

His staff slams down with enough force to break right through the ice, but Jack knows better, can control himself better than that, and the cracks beneath the girl’s feet smooth away into nothing as Jack’s beautiful designs solidify, thickening the ice until it would hold a horse, never mind two children and a spirit. The boy dashes to her side, falling to his knees beside her as they both weep. Silently, Jack watches them, his breathing shaky, his legs trembling; he leans against his staff, wondering what could possibly be wrong with him. He has seen children in danger before, has helped them out of it, and even been the cause of it a few times, but he has never, _never_ reacted like this. What is so different about these children, that he is so panicked by the thought of them being harmed?

Still, he can feel the shaking in his limbs calm, and he walks slowly to where the children are huddled together, not trusting himself to call up the winds without being blown away in this fragile state of his.

He crouches beside them, shepherd’s crook resting at his feet as he cocks his head to listen to their whimpers. They cling to each other desperately and it brings a sad, longing smile to Jack’s face, because who would ever clutch at him with such tender ferocity? Surely the two must be siblings, for Jack has witnessed enough friendships and familial ties over the years to tell the difference, and besides, upon such close inspection, they bear a striking resemblance to one another. He wonders what it must feel like, to have blood-ties like that, to be so afraid for another’s life that the relief leaves one insensible. 

For a moment, Jack’s hand hovers over the little girl’s hair, wanting so badly to reach out, but knowing precisely what will happen if he does; two decades of intangibility have taught him that much, at least. Then the spell is broken when she looks up and squeaks in something like terror, staring directly at him. Her brother glares around defiantly, tears still making their way doggedly to his chin but he can’t see what it is that has his sister so afraid.

Jack, for his part, falls on his backside he’s so shocked, scrambling gracelessly for a few feet and kicking his staff in the process. He makes such an ungainly picture – lanky limbs sprawled across the ice, mouth hanging open, breath coming in strange little pants – that the girl’s fear melts away, and she laughs wetly, tears still caught in a lump in her throat.

She reaches for him, over her brother’s shoulder, and the boy peers at what he thinks to be thin air, his face suspicious.

“Jack!” She calls. Jack can feel the air freezing in his lungs. The temperature plummets for a few seconds until he can get a hold of himself, and then-

“Jack!” She says again, and Jack can feel them, the tears of his own, because finally, _finally_ someone can see him, can talk to him, knows that he is there, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself, because everything feels so much sharper and more distinct now, he can taste the air he breathes, can hear the thrumming of his tense muscles, could do anything, anything at all, and he’s never felt so _alive_ , so _real_ …

“How…” He trails off, not sure what to say and not entirely certain he is even capable of forming a sentence any more. “How do you-?”

“Mary, who are you talking to?” Her brother asks, and Mary huffs, clearly irritated that her brother is being so slow and stupid and _old_. It has always amazed Jack how quickly children’s moods can flicker from one thing to another, now more so than ever. Her tears have stopped completely, she is so fascinated, and her brown eyes are wide, huge beneath a blunt brown fringe.

“Jack! Like Ma said! It’s Jack!” Her words are muffled somewhat by her brother’s arm, and she drops letters and words all over the place, but it’s still so beautiful, music to Jack’s ears because all the while she speaks, her gaze is trained only on him.

Her brother’s face drops and his eyes are so sad, no child should have eyes that sad. “Mary, Jack isn’t… he isn’t _here_. He’s in a very special place, remember? D’you remember mother told us about him?” 

Jack can feel his heart sink through his abdomen like a stone, but Mary shakes her head vehemently and struggles from her brother’s arms.

“No, Will, no! Here! Jack’s _here_!” She storms over to Jack in whirlwind of furious brown eyes and little clenched fists and _throws_ herself at him, giving Jack barely enough time to catch her, hands coming up automatically, though he tenses and closes his eyes, because this is it, this will ruin everything, the first person to ever see him will…

She is warm in his arms, and small, almost alarmingly so. She feels fragile in his grip, the unshakable grip of winter. He can smell her hair, can feel the pounding of her heart even through so many layers of fabric, and how did he ever survive the past twenty years without this? His eyes open slowly to see Will gawping at them, and he knows he must make an odd sight, the spirit boy with white hair, frostbitten hands and face and the sickening chill of winter emanating from his skin. His breath is too cold to mist as theirs does, his cheeks do not flush as theirs do, and he hates to think what sort of expression his face has been twisted into by this new turn of events. Slowly, carefully, he sets Mary down beside him. He pulls himself to his feet and steps forward to pick up his staff, not sure what to do or say now that will not scare them away.

“Jack?” Will asks finally, his voice trembling the smallest amount. Jack manages to quirk his lips into something that resembles a smile, because this is all so new, he’s never spoken to anyone that wasn’t himself or the winds before; he doesn’t know what to do, what to say, how to act.

“Jack Frost,” he says, holding out a hand to shake, and hoping against hope that it is an appropriate reaction. He thinks he sees the boys shoulders slump a little, before he drags an answering smile to his own face.

“William Burgess, and this is my sister, Mary,” he says, and clasps Jack’s hand. The warmth of his uncovered skin is almost painful to Jack’s pale-and-blue fingers; he snatches them away quickly, because if the warmth is this painful to him, then what must the cold be like for Will? But the boy’s face falls a little, and he clutches his hand to his chest for a moment as though unsure of what to do with it. Eventually, he reaches towards his sister, who grasps his fingers tightly with her own small hand.

“We have to go home now,” Will says, tilting his chin back as though balancing something precarious atop his head. It isn’t all that necessary. Jack isn’t too much taller than him, particularly hunched down into himself as he is now. “Will you be coming with us?”

Jack is beginning to feel that these children will never cease to surprise him – something that he finds he is perfectly happy with. Despite the anticipation he can feel crawling down his spine, Jack shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot, eyeing Will and Mary. He’s never been into anyone’s home before, feeling that doing so without being first invited would be not only an unforgivable intrusion, but also for fear that he would freeze the family within their own home. Now, though, now these children are inviting him of their own free will, these children that can _see_ him and _touch_ him. He licks his lips nervously and feels the saliva freeze, cracking when he opens his mouth to talk.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” he starts, before the feeling of a small hand grasping his sends his thoughts to a stuttering halt. Maybe he’ll never be used to this casual display of trust; he’s not sure he ever wants to be used to it. He can’t afford to take it for granted.

He’s near-dragged back to the village, and he flinches so violently that his hand is almost torn from Mary’s grip, because he has _never_ walked through this village since his first night, still fresh from the ice and giddy with joy and wonder. There have been other villages – towns and cities, even – since that night, but this one in particular drags painful memories to the surface, along with a lingering resentment towards the voice from the moon. Both children eye him, concerned looks crossing their faces only briefly, before being replaced with ones of horror when a woman – middle-aged, with streaks of grey at her temples and laughter lines at her eyes – rushes right through Jack. His breath leaves him with a sound like a sob, and the siblings exchange a glance, Mary’s eyes wide and confused, Will’s eyes pained.

They hurry onwards then, tugging Jack out of the way of the other villagers. Mary’s grip on his hand tightens with each step until the contact becomes painful, but Jack still can’t bear to pull away. 

The house they arrive at is larger than many of the others that Jack has seen, but it appears modest nonetheless. A simple enough log-cabin, sturdy and built to last through the harsh winters. For a moment, Jack stops outside of the front door to simply stare, but then a voice from inside calls for the children to shut the door, they’re letting all the warm air out, and Jack hurriedly steps inside. There is a fire roaring in a stone fireplace – Jack questions the logic of this for a moment, given that the rest of the house is very flammable – with a couple of hard wooden rocking chairs placed in front of it. A woman is asleep in one of these chairs, her chestnut hair drawn away from her face, the warm glow of the fire not enough to mask the ribbons of grey that weave through it. Her lightly-freckled face is calm in slumber, however, and Jack’s attention is drawn to the man that kneels before the hearth with an iron poker in his hand, and a broad, beaming grin upon his face. It was him that had called to the children, and Jack can see the subtle tells of shared blood. This is a family, and he’s intruding. He feels suddenly awkward, uncomfortable in his own skin; praying that he won’t be noticed, he slowly begins edging towards the door as Mary regales her father with tales of the day’s adventures. It is only Will’s narrow-eyed stare that prevents Jack from sneaking away, out of the door and into the night.

When Mary reaches the part about Jack, their father’s reaction is a peculiar one. He splutters, chokes on his words, the sounds falling sharply from his mouth like splintered bone, and his face turns an ugly ashen shade before he finally manages to regain his wits. Mary is furious, convinced that her father does not believe her, but he just shakes his head, gathers her close, and warns her never to speak of Jack in front of her mother.

This makes her frown, her forehead scrunching up exaggeratedly as she questions her father, but he does not say another word on the matter, only sends the two off to bed with a kiss on the forehead and a fond goodnight.

He is silent for a good long while afterwards, and Jack watches the unhappy lines his face settles into before slipping out of the door and making himself comfortable on the roof for the night.

 

William and Mary are wonderful children, and Jack watches them grow fondly. Even now, after three years in their company, they are the only ones that can see him; Jack finds that he doesn’t mind that. Maybe no-one else will ever be able to see him. With that in mind, he spends all of his available time with the children, leaving only for extended periods when the weather grows too warm for him to be truly comfortable. In the beginning, he had left during the nights also, not wanting to overstay his welcome, or chill the entirety of the house – Mary had quickly put a stop to that, complaining of bad dreams that abated only when Jack was nearby. So he complies with her wishes all too gladly, sitting vigilant on his staff beside the door throughout the night. 

On the nights when his presence isn’t enough to ward off the nightmares, Jack allows Mary to clamber into his lap, and he talks to her for hours – about his years as an invisible spirit, about his time spent in colder climes during the summer months and all of the fantastic things he has seen and done. He tells her of a splendid palace far north of Burgess that is populated by enormous furred beasts called yetis that make toys to be delivered to the children once a year; he tells of a man whose body is formed purely from glittering golden dreamsand, a man that lives on an island surrounded by mermaids and sharks. Sometimes, when she is feeling particularly afraid, he tells of the warrior queen that lives high in the mountains of a country that is almost too warm for Jack to ever visit, a queen that is served by small, brightly-coloured fairies that collect the teeth of all the children in the world. And when Mary is sleepy and blinks up at him through tangled lashes and swollen eyelids, Jack tells her about the fierce and wise rabbit that traverses the Earth through his network of tunnels, bringing hope and life with him wherever he goes. 

It is true that Jack doesn’t know much about these beings, but what he lacks in knowledge, he more than makes up for with imagination and embellishment. He can talk for hours about the other spirits that roam the world – finally, he has plucked up the courage to speak to a few of them, and his joy at being noticed by other immortals is unparalleled. 

Sometimes, however, when both Will and Mary sit with him on Mary’s straw pallet, Jack gathers them both close (though Will protests until he’s blue in the face, a teasing glint in his eyes) and whispers tales of the shadow man that lurks in the darkest parts of the night and feasts on the fear of children. In truth, Jack knows the least of all about this particular spirit, but a small dose of fear is good for the children, he thinks to himself. A small dose of fear could very well keep them alive.

Jack still makes sure he takes time to play with the children, even as he watches them grow, trying not to hold on too tightly as age takes them further and further from him, waiting for the day that their eyes will be filmed over and unable to see him anymore. For the day that they will forget he ever existed.

But the years pass, and still the day doesn’t come. Mary is ten winters, her brother eighteen, when he finally thinks to bring it up with them; both seem shocked that Jack could even consider such a thing.

“Of course we won’t forget you, Jack,” Will promises with a smile, and Mary nods seriously. Jack bites his lip, doesn’t point out that Will spends every spare minute with the butcher’s lovely daughter, that Mary is starting to grow out of late-night stories and glares at him for starting snowball fights when they should be working. And Jack understands, of course he does, they can’t stay children forever, but he wants to be a part of that. He wants to watch them grow up, grow old and have their own lives, their own families.

Time passes, though, and despite the occasional slip-up, Jack’s existence remains a secret that is jealously guarded by the siblings. In their younger years, the children had often discussed Jack with their father, always careful to first ensure that their mother could not hear them, but tales of Jack always brought with them such a haunted expression on the man’s face that even those trail away to nothing. It was a look that Jack had seen him adopt several times over the years, though he was usually far more meticulous in ensuring that neither of his children noticed it. Mostly it seemed to be topics that related to Jack – his habit of threatening to freeze their noses off if they don’t listen to their parents, how he would take them to play in the snow, and they would return with crowns of woven twigs, and Will’s insatiable appetite for following Jack up into trees.

Often he wonders if this had something to do with the other Jack, the one that the children’s mother remembers so fondly, that always brings a distant look to her eyes.

It isn’t until William’s wedding – he finally proposed to the butcher’s daughter, close to Jack’s pond, and the spirit did what he could to make the proposal a memorable one – that he finally gets his answer. The frost had never looked as beautiful, and Jack had hidden himself away to give them some privacy. Admittedly, Jack was not initially certain that Will had made the right choice – Emeline, her name is, and she is a pleasant, if slightly dull, girl. But then, Jack could scour the Earth and not find a woman good enough for Will. The wedding is a simple affair, held in the late spring, and everyone seems confused to wake in the morning to find a light dusting of frost coating the village.

Will and Mary thank Jack, and congratulate him on a beautiful job well done. Their father peers suspiciously around the small church, searching for the cause of the chilled draught on the back of his neck. He mutters something about getting old, and feeling the cold more now, and Jack hides his grin behind his hand. It seems the North wind is as happy as he is to see the delighted, adoring smile on Will’s face as his bride walks down the aisle. 

They stand outside afterwards, Jack standing a little apart from the majority of the crowd. He has been walked through too many times to count, and he would not want anything at all to spoil Will’s day. Mary stands close beside him, her face thinner than Jack would like, her waifish frame trembling, though Jack has asked the winds to be mindful of her. She will not leave his side; she holds his hand, in fact, the skin of her palm rougher, and not as warm as it was in her childhood. She moves eventually to stand with her mother.

Then, for the first time in a long time, Jack sees a smile drift wearily across their father’s face. He is closer than Jack had realised, having moved whilst Jack was distracted, and though the man’s eyes never quite focus on him, surely the man must be aware of his presence, for he tilts his head to one side, and whispers so quietly that even with the aid of the wind, Jack has trouble hearing him:

_Thank you, Jackson._

Jack thinks that this day might be one of his favourite memories, and his insides twist as he remembers the children he has watched grow and mature. Nothing about him has changed – he will surely outlive his wonderful boy and girl, and then what will he do?

Four years later – one year after Mary’s death, two before their mother’s and five before their father’s – when Jack stares into the eyes of William’s first child, Mary Joan Burgess, and the child stares back at him, he thinks that maybe he has finally found an answer.


	2. In which several things go quickly wrong, and Jack has better things to do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a heads up, being English, I do use the English spelling of a great many words - just so that no-one thinks it's a mistake :) Other than that, I hope I got the various voices right, and I really, really hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

_280 years later_

 

The spare room of the Bennett house is never used by guests, something that all of the guests are perfectly happy with. The air conditioning is broken in such a way that it is turned up high at all times of the year, and none of the heaters ever seem to have any sort of effect. It is often cold enough that a thin layer of frost forms on the window. No-one has ever managed to spend more than a few minutes in the room, much less an entire night, so guests often find themselves on an inflatable mattress on the floor of the lounge.

This arrangement suits the Bennetts perfectly. That room is Jack’s, and they don’t share him well.

In the almost three hundred years since Jack first opened his eyes beneath the veil of the ice, an unusually strong attachment to this family of humans formed. Rarely do spirits bother with the individual lives of humans; their time is so short that it hardly seems worth the effort to most.

Jack, on the other hand, has formed a strong bond with each and every member of the family.

Why would he not? They are the only humans that have been capable of seeing him since the very beginning of his existence, and though he has encountered other spirits from time to time, they have made it clear that they find his fondness for dallying so closely with the lives of mortals a strange and unhealthy fascination, one that he will no doubt grow out of in a few centuries. Jack isn’t so sure – he truly can’t imagine his life without the strange little clan of mortals.

He watches the sun rise through his window ( _his_ window – forty years since he was first given his own room, and he still can’t get over it) sighing as the last of the Sandman’s dreamsand dissipates with the arrival of morning. Despite having his very own bed, Jack rarely sleeps; his body has no need of it, and he likes Burgess at night. When he does sleep, he doesn’t dream.

He’s never dreamt.

Jack doesn’t mind, though. He can see the dreams spun so elegantly by the Sandman’s will – they inhabit the town night after night. They are as silent to the masses as he is, and he has always been fascinated by them. Even now, after centuries spent with his family, Jack looks fondly on his memories of the sand, from a time when no-one could see him; then, the sand would wrap around his touch for a fleeting moment, showing him snippets of a child’s mind before hurrying on its way. Of course, the sand could not be a companion to him, not like the winds that remain ever fond of him, but they certainly acted as a balm in those first, lonely years. Sometimes he wonders if the Sandman will ever understand precisely how much he gave to Jack then – Jack doubts it, somehow. It’s rare that any of the ‘Big Four’ socialise outside of their elite clique, and Jack knows for certain that he doesn’t fit that category. Guardians need believers that extend beyond a single bloodline.

A noise from the room next door shakes Jack from his thoughts – he had been lost in them for a while. Already both the children are stirring, and their mother won’t be far behind. Jack grins to himself and slips down the stairs to let Abby into the back yard and put down her bowl of food, placing his staff on the table. Many members of the family have protested behaviour like this over the years, but Jack enjoys the menial tasks (in moderation). All other members of the household have odd jobs and chores to do – why should Jack be the exception to this most basic of rules?

He isn’t alone downstairs for long. Jamie shuffles into the kitchen, uncoordinated still but bright-eyed, and he greets Jack with a grin and a hug on his way to the cupboard. Jack ruffles his already-untidy hair, making Jamie laugh and duck out from beneath Jack’s cold hand.

Anna trudges down the stairs and into the kitchen less than a minute later with Sophie in her arms. She hands the child over to Jack, who immediately begins cooing over her, tickling her tummy, blowing raspberries on her cheek and just generally winding her up. Sophie giggles and shrieks delightedly, blonde hair falling over her face as she twists violently in Jack’s arms. Anna shakes her head disapprovingly, but there is a soft smile on her faces as she gets breakfast for herself, Jack and Sophie. Technically, Jack doesn’t need to eat, and has often gone long periods without food in harder times, but he likes to eat nonetheless.

“Staff off the table, Jack,” she admonishes gently. Jack heaves a greatly exaggerated sigh, slipping easily into this pattern of domesticity. He shifts Sophie to his hip, cradling her with one arm so that he can prop his staff up against the cupboard. It is a good thing, he reflects, that the kitchen window faces the back yard; else the neighbours would see all manner of strange things.

Meanwhile, Jamie has rested his head on the kitchen table, muttering under his breath about how much he doesn’t want to go to school, that Miss. Addams is evil, that she hates him and everything he stands for. In truth, Jack knows that Miss. Addams treats all of the children in the same way – she does not single Jamie out for any reason, and Jamie has not suffered from bullying since first grade when Jack had felt the need to step in and the spook the other children until they had stopped picking on his ward. His feelings of guilt regarding the matter had lasted approximately ten seconds.

Jack snickers quietly and winks when Jamie lifts his head, a questioning look on his face. Already, snow has started falling outside. He punches the air.

“Yes! Snow day!” He cheers. Anna shoots a narrow-eyed look at Jack who shrugs as innocently as he knows how, a broad grin threatening at the corners of his mouth. “Can I go to the pond? Can I please, everyone will be going!”

Anna laughs. “Only if you take Jack with you.” Pleading eyes turn to him instead.

“ _Please_ , Jack?”

Jack tilts his head thoughtfully, a chuckle in the back of his throat that spills into his voice, “I don’t know, Jamie. I might have others things to be doing today.” He breaks down into laughter at Jamie’s high, protesting whine.

“No you don’t! You’re our spirit, Jack, what else would you be doing?” Jamie protests. Jack bites his lip for a moment until he has recovered himself enough to reply.

“Maybe I wanted to go and annoy some other spirits,” he says, his voice taking a tone of mock-defensiveness, knowing full-well that Jamie is perfectly capable of telling the difference. “I could mess with Wisp’s lights, or freeze Val’s toga-thingy again, that’s always fun, or I could…” He trails off at the look on Jamie’s face, laughing as he does so. “Okay, alright, I’ll go to the pond with you, jeez.”

“Jeez!” Sophie adds as mockingly as a toddler can. She sticks her tongue out at her brother, who sticks his tongue out in reply, and because Jack’s feeling a little left out of their tomfoolery, he sticks his tongue out at the both of them before Anna berates him for teaching her children bad manners.

He is tempted to point out that he helped to raise her in exactly the same way and she turned out just fine, but he holds his tongue.

By the time Jamie hurries up the stairs to get dressed, Jack has settled on the backrest of one of the empty chairs, and is feeding Sophie chunks of banana. She is, of course, perfectly capable of eating it on her own, but she screws her nose up at banana unless Jack chills and hardens it slightly. Jack doesn’t mind indulging her. Besides, he thinks to himself, at least she’ll eat fruit; Jamie has always been a terribly picky eater. Anna smiles adoringly at the pair from across the table, calmly making her way through a bowl of healthy cereal. More like cardboard, in Jack’s opinion – but then, what does he know? He’s only three-hundred years old, after all.

Sophie turns her face away at last. Jack attempts to sway her, knowing that his efforts will be in vain, “C’mon Soph, I thought you said you _liked_ it.” Her lips remain pressed firmly together, and Jack only sighs, polishing off the rest of the fruit himself.

“And what will you be doing today?” Jack asks Anna, holding Sophie’s hands as she stands on his lap, wobbling slightly though she is in no danger of falling.

“Not a great deal.” She smiles wanly. She looks tired, Jack thinks not for the first time. She worries about her husband who has to travel great distances to make a living, worries about her children, worries about Jack and so very rarely worries about herself. Jack has watched her grow from a precocious, warm-spirited child to a caring, devoted mother, and has always felt so proud to know that she has made the choices that have made her happy. 

“Maybe you should get some rest,” Jack suggests gently. “I can keep an eye on the terrible twosome when we get back. Take some time for yourself.”

“Thank you, Jack.”

He smiles. “It’s not a problem, I like spending time with them.”

There is a loud thump as Jamie tumbles down the last couple of stairs, but he is standing in the kitchen doorway before any of them can react, flushed, panting and grinning around the room at them all. He is dressed, teeth freshly-brushed – Jack had once warned him of the supposed consequences of letting Toothiana collect a bad tooth, and Jamie, too young to fully understand Jack’s gentle teasing, took the words to heart. Not that that’s a bad thing, he supposes.

“Can we go now?” Jamie asks, nearly vibrating in place. 

Jack makes sure to kiss both Sophie and Anna on the cheek as he leaves, fixing Jamie with a pointed stare until he does the same. He isn’t sure why this ritual is important to him, but before leaving the house, Jack always makes sure to give a proper goodbye. They walk to the pond, sticking to the sidewalks carefully; Jack makes sure that Jamie’s path is clear of any ice, reforming it behind them as they go. As soon as they leave the buildings behind, Jamie starts chattering, and how the boy can speak so fast and still manage to breathe between sentences is an absolute mystery to Jack. He just nods along for the most part, listening carefully – he has learned that children are particularly skilled at spotting his fake-interested hums.

Soon enough, though, Jamie is pestering Jack to tell him more wondrous stories of the other spirits that inhabit the world. It is peculiar, Jack thinks. Jamie and Sophie are very opinionated on the matter of the other spirits – that is to say, they hate them with a passion for the careless way Jack has been treated throughout the course of his life. Yet, they have provided some of the best stories that Jack has ever told the children, and so Jamie and Sophie find themselves torn.

For the most part, Jack is able to convince them that it is no fault of the other spirits. Most of them are far older than he, older than he can even comprehend, and they are very set in their ways. It is hardly their fault that he is younger, that he is different.

Besides, if Jamie and Sophie hate the other spirits, there is a chance they won’t receive gifts, or money, or good dreams, or eggs at Easter. That is something that Jack certainly doesn’t want.

“…So I turn around, and who is standing behind me? All four of them, Anansi, Coyote, Iktomi and Loki, and they all have this identical expression, like I’m – oh, your friends are here,” Jack cut himself off, ruffling Jamie’s hair fondly. “I’ll have to finish this one off later, kiddo.” Jamie looks ready to protest, but his friends call his name before he has the chance, and so he runs over to join them without sparing Jack a backwards glance. Already there are small groups of people gathering around the edges of the pond, semi-famous for being frozen enough to walk upon all year round. Scientists and small television crews filming documentaries aren’t an uncommon sight during the summer, when select groups flock to try to unmask the little pond’s secrets.

The Bennett family just laughs. 

Jack settles himself quietly on the rocks, tapping his staff against the ice as he lets himself relax. Even after so many years, he feels something uncomfortable unfurl in his chest as he watches the children stagger and slide on the ice; he remembers Will and Mary, his first wards, remembers the ice cracking beneath their small feet and the irrational terror that shot through him. He doesn’t much like seeing people on the pond he has come to call his own. 

Despite that, he does not even consider driving them away. The laughter, the looks of delight, it’s enough to settle him.

The children don’t linger at the pond long, though they have the entire day to themselves. The East wind snatches Jack up, catching at his clothes, his hair, his limbs, and he almost stumbles when he is deposited beside Jamie. For the most part, he walks beside the children on the way home, occasionally drifting alongside on an idle breeze. Jamie’s friends are sweet children, their belief in the Guardians still strong, and they chatter excitedly about the upcoming Easter Egg Hunt. Jack is planning on having a little fun with that – can’t have Jamie and Sophie dipping out if the other children get there first. Anna wouldn’t approve of Jack’s cheating, but then, Anna doesn’t have to know. 

The Easter Kangaroo won’t be too impressed either, but Jack doubts he’ll bother to do anything about it. Jack is viewed as something of an irritation and an anomaly by the Pooka, who has a hard time understanding why he is so selective about the children he protects.

Jack doesn’t think he’s that bad. He’ll protect any child in trouble should he see a child in need of protecting, which is more than most. The Guardians spend most of their days holed away in their grand hideouts – as far as Jack’s aware, they haven’t even interacted with children for a good couple of centuries. In that respect, at least, he is leaps and bounds ahead of them. Besides, he keeps the belief of his wards strong, regardless of his personal feelings towards the other spirits; what more do they want from him?

They reach the Bennett family home without incident, though the children have agreed that they will while away some time with sledding – an activity that Jack heartily approves of. As long as he is there to supervise, he can’t imagine a better way to spend a snow day.

Anna is, of course, perfectly happy to allow her son to go sledding; Jack’s domain, his very nature is tied to the ice and snow, and he can keep Jamie safe while the boy plays. Before they leave, Jack swoops up to peck her cheek; she smiles wickedly when she tugs a hat down over Jamie’s hair and warns him not to let Jack Frost nip at his nose. Laughing, she ignores Jack’s good-natured protests ( _I do not nip noses, I freeze them, for I am a powerful and terrible winter spirit!_ ) and bundles Sophie inside to warm up, Abby trotting at her heels. Jamie just shakes his head quietly and follows his friends away, sled tucked beneath his arm.

Things don’t go quite as smoothly as planned, of course – Jack, being Jack, decides that in such fine weather conditions, the only sensible thing to do is start a snowball fight with as many of the local children as he possibly can. Not that any of them apart from Jamie can see him, but then, what does that matter? When they’re all running and playing and screaming and falling over from laughing too hard, it’s easy for Jack to lose himself in the crowd, easy for him to pretend he’s just another one of the children. It’s not something that he does very often – for the most part, he finds that the company of the Bennetts is more than enough to satisfy him. But sometimes… Sometimes, it’s nice to play pretend.

Story time that evening is… interesting to say the least. Jamie’s tooth had been knocked out after a rather unfortunate incident involving a couch, and Sophie demands that he tell the story at least three times, with actions, referencing the new picture on the wall. This then sparks a round of Jack’s stories about Toothiana; he has just finished regaling them with a (completely made-up) tale of great danger and heroism involving the miniature fairies, a djinn, the Lady of the Lake and a dragon that called himself Harold, when he glances down to find the two of them asleep. 

Really, he ought to carry Sophie back to her own bed; he ought to go downstairs and wish Anna a good night; he ought to return to his room, or go outside and freeze the town, or follow the threads of the Sandman’s dreams.

In the end, he does none of these things. He tucks Jamie and Sophie beneath the bedcovers to keep them warm in his presence (his skin is no longer painfully cold to the touch, but he will never, never take risks with his family) and curls around them, gathering them close and shutting his eyes with a quiet huff.

After all, the Tooth Fairy doesn’t come to those that are awake.

 

He is woken the next morning by a quiet, mournful wail. Immediately he is wide awake, leaping from the bed to grasp at his staff, scanning the room for the threat that had dared to invade his home – he’ll make them regret it, just see if he doesn’t –

Jamie is clutching despondently at something that is hidden from Jack’s line of view; Sophie seems equally devastated, but neither of them appear to be hurt. Slowly, so slowly, he relaxes his stance and steps over towards the siblings. Neither of them seem to notice his presence until he clears his throat softly, and he is horrified to see that they are both fighting back tears. He can’t think of anything that would upset them like this.

“What’s wrong?” He asks as gently as he knows how. Jamie sniffs and tries to put on a brave face.

“The Tooth Fairy didn’t come,” he says, eyes begging Jack for answers that he doesn’t have. “She didn’t come. Why didn’t she come, Jack?” Jack stoops down, drags both of the unresisting children into his arms and settles on the bed. He takes a deep, fortifying breath. Neither of them will like the answer overmuch.

“I don’t know, Jamie,” he says. “I just – I don’t know. This doesn’t happen very often.”

“Maybe, maybe she was just really busy last night,” Jamie suggests, but his voice is empty, horrifyingly so, and Jack shivers a little. He’d just about forgotten how important this was to children.

“Maybe,” Jack agrees. His voice is almost as weak, though, as a new possibility occurs to him. He is aware that the Guardians know very little about him beyond the very basics – certainly, he has never even _seen_ Toothiana, and his interactions with her fairies could barely be called such. It is possible, he thinks with rising dread, that the sight of him sharing a room with Jamie and Sophie was enough to turn the fairy away, that perhaps he scared her off. Biting his lip anxiously, Jack turns his face away from the two, but they can sense that something is wrong with their spirit. Eventually, after much cajoling on Jamie’s part, Jack reveals his theory to them and waits.

“No! That’s horrible! Why would you even think that?” Jamie asks, and his voice now is worried, his small hands fisted in the material of Jack sweatshirt. “It’s not your fault Jack! And, and if that is the reason why the fairy didn’t get my tooth, then fine! I don’t want her to! I don’t want her stupid quarter anyway. You’re much better than a quarter, Jack.”

Sophie nods along with her brother, though in truth she must understand less than half of the conversation. She can see that Jack is hurting, though, and that Jamie is trying to make it better, so she curls up against Jack, and agrees seriously, “Better.”

A smile paints itself on his face before he can think to stop it, and he bows his head, nose brushing Sophie’s hair. The two children in his arms are so alive, so very different to him; it can be overwhelming sometimes. Jack takes a deep breath and blinks back his tears, eyes prickling uncomfortably with the onslaught of conflicting emotions. Because of course he loves the children, loves them as his own family, and of course he is happy that they are so attached to him. He just doesn’t want to see them so angry for him, doesn’t want them to give up on the Guardians, no matter what the spirits may or may not have done or said about Jack.

“Tell you what,” Jack says, his voice a little stronger now. “I can deliver the tooth personally, and ask why it wasn’t collected. It was probably just a mistake; besides, if you don’t want the quarter, then I could have it. It’s not like I get pocket money.”

“You don’t need pocket money, Jack,” Jamie says, and Jack opens his mouth to protest (just because he’s _invisible_ , doesn’t mean-) before the boy continues, “we’ll buy you whatever you need.”

“Sweet as that is,” Jack smiles. “It’s not necessary. Really. I’ll just go to the Tooth Palace and find out what happened; won’t even take a day, I promise. I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

In the end, the pair don’t take much convincing. Jack rushes through his goodbye ritual with a half-asleep Anna, and is on his way before most of the town is awake. The winds happily carry him towards Punjam Hy Loo, where he knows Toothiana has hidden away her palace and her fairies; as he approaches his destination he can feel the temperature increasing, but apart from a slight depletion of energy it doesn’t affect him. He isn’t even really sure where exactly Punjam Hy Loo _is_ – he trusts the winds to deliver him there safely, though, so for a short time he just watches the world beneath him and enjoys the sensations of flight.

He hadn’t been lying to Jamie when he’d said that the flight wouldn’t take him long – within only a few hours, he is hovering nervously above the Tooth Palace, taking in the eerie silence. From what he has heard, the Palace is never still or silent. There are always teeth to be collected, and as a result, there are always fairies coming and going. Jack doesn’t understand the silence, and he doesn’t like it.

_Deep breaths Jack_ , he tells himself and whistles for the winds to take him lower, in amongst the beautiful hanging structures. At any other time, he might pause to appreciate their intricacy – he forms his delicate frost, after all, and knows enough to recognise these breath-taking works of art. Now, though, he has no time for such frivolities.

From the corner of his eye he spots movement. Breath caught in his throat, he whips around, staring wildly. It takes him a moment before he notices the flash of iridescent feathers, and he allows his staff to drop from its defensive position across his chest. 

“Um, hello? Little fairy? Baby Tooth?” He doesn’t know the proper way to address the worker fairies, but it seems to do the trick. A small head peeks out from the alcove in which the fairy had been crouched, before she flits up. She squeaks at him, chirps and chatters, hands gesturing wildly, and Jack may be three hundred years old, may have spent most of those years with children, but even he can’t keep up with her. “Are you okay, little Tooth?” He asks instead. She nods frantically.

She darts into the collar of his sweatshirt and bundles the material in her tiny fists, tugging on it in what Jack presumes is the direction she wants him to go. The winds oblige, if a touch cautiously, and Jack is careful to move more slowly than he might usually.

He is led to a pond ( _of course_ , he thinks to himself) below an ancient, crumbled mural. Baby Tooth gasps at the sight of it, fluttering around Jack’s head in distress; he gathers her back into his collar and coos softly. It is true that he cannot imitate the birdlike tongue of the fairies, but he has learned a number of languages over the years, and he chooses only the gentlest of them now. It seems to work, thankfully, and she settles enough to let him drift closer. The pond is smaller than his own, but deeper and warmer also – the ice against his feet when he lands feels different, but then, he is unused to this place and the magic that is inherent in its very existence. 

He receives no warning.

 

Flat on his back with the breath knocked out of him, Jack struggles to focus. His staff is still in his hand, that’s a good thing, but he is pinned down by a solid, furry mass. He squints, trying to clear the flashing lights from his vision – must have hit his head, he thinks dizzily, didn’t realise that could do any damage –and receives a vague impression of long ears and a scowl for his trouble. There are voices to one side, loud and panicked, but Jack can’t turn his head to look, can’t risk taking his eyes off of… The _Easter Bunny_?

“What?” He asks finally, still blinking slowly. “No, really, just – what?”

“What are _you_ doin’ here?” The Bunny snarls, one knee still lodged firmly on the centre of Jack’s chest, which – ouch. Unpleasant. “Think this is _funny_ do ya? This must be a fine turnaround for ya; so have ya come to gloat? As if ’68 wasn’t bad enough - you’ve got no shame, have ya mate? I swear-“

“Whoa, hey, what does that have to do with anything?” Jack asks, and it is a valid enough question. He knows that the Easter Kangaroo is still sore about that misunderstanding, but really, the overgrown fluffball hadn’t even given Jack a chance to explain himself at the time. Besides, that wouldn’t explain such raw, brutal anger. This is a result of something newer, something that is still fresh. “What’s going on? I just came to ask why no-one collected this,” and with that, he fishes Jamie’s tooth from his pocket – with considerable difficulty, as his arms are still pinned to his sides – to show them.

There is a gasp somewhere off to his left, the sound softer and higher than Jack might have expected – Toothiana, then. 

The tooth is snatched from his hand and he is about to protest when the furry mass is dragged off of him, and he is pulled into what may be a hug or may be a violent attack, he isn’t sure just yet, but he can’t breathe so either is a good bet. She can’t seem to decide whether she is grateful that he has brought the tooth to her, or angry that he even has it in the first place – Baby Tooth soon puts a stop to all of that. Though Jack didn’t do anything at all except tempt the little creature from her hiding place, Toothiana seems grateful that her little fairy is well, and appears to think that Jack had a hand in making sure it was so.

Well, Jack isn’t about to correct her, not when she has just stopped strangling him.

Taking the opportunity that has been so graciously presented to him, Jack looks around, eyes widening as he realises that all four of the guardians are present and accounted for. Nicholas St North nods solemnly at him – Jack almost takes a step back before he catches himself, because really, he’d never realised how big the guy was – and the Sandman waves a little, almost shyly. Jack manages a small smile in return before focusing on Toothiana again.

“So,” he begins awkwardly, and then stops, not sure of what else to say. Everyone is watching him carefully – he shuffles his feet a little, gripping his staff in front of him as he tends to do when nervous.

“What, um, what happened here?” He manages eventually, drumming his fingers against the knotted wood of his staff.

Toothiana’s breath hitches, but aside from that she seems in control of the situation. “Pitch Black was here,” she says, head held high, Jamie’s tooth clutched to her breast like a lifeline. “He stole the teeth – captured my fairies. I thought they were all gone.” Her voice softens as Baby Tooth flits around her, as maternal a tone as Jack has ever heard. That is not what holds Jack’s attention, however.

“ _Pitch Black_? The Bogeyman?” Jack is incredulous. He has never heard of the Nightmare King taking action against the Guardians. Somehow, Jack had always assumed that the spirit was far too proud, too much of a solitary creature for that.

“He is threat to us, and to all of the children of the world,” North explains, gesturing expansively. “Now he has stolen the teeth, and all of the memories of the children with them. He means to bring fear to every corner of the world, Jack, and he must be stopped.” Jack nods once, not an agreement as much as encouragement. “We must find way to stop him.”

Jack sucks in a breath, but there is so little he can do. What information he has about the Nightmare King is virtually useless in a situation such as this, and he doesn’t know how the Guardians think that they can fight Pitch, fight fear, any more than he can fight wonder, or hope, or whatever else it is that they cherish and protect. Jack has never concerned himself overmuch with the whys and wherefores of Guardianhood, but if it seems that the spirits are not doing their jobs, if the children feel that they are being neglected and forgotten… He can feel his breath quickening at the very thought – it is with a great deal of effort that he pulls himself together and looks around at the Guardians.

“I have to go,” he manages, and the North wind scoops him up immediately, the distress in his voice evident.

They call after him, of course, and he hovers just above them for a moment.

“Will you not help us, Jack?” North asks, and there is something desperate written in the lines of his face. Sanderson watches silently, but Jack knows he understands – knows from his expression that Sanderson must have noticed the recurring dreams of a winter spirit, passed down from parent to child. Sanderson will let him go and protect his family.

“If you aren’t doing your jobs, then children stop believing, right? So give them something, any little sign, just prove to them that you exist,” he says, babbles really, because he’d tried that in the beginning, tried so many times, but he doesn’t have the luxury of lingering to have a chat and a brainstorm. Jamie and Sophie are waiting for him. “I’ll do what I can!” He calls, and the winds finally sweep him up, away from the cloying heat of the Tooth Palace, and back towards his home. They can sense his worry, it seems, and he is buffeted back and forth between them several times as he hurries back to Burgess.

As promised, Jack returns before dinner, and he lands silently on the roof, overcome with the realisation that under no circumstances can Jamie and Sophie know that there is any danger. Fear can keep them safe, it is true, but fear lends Pitch his strength. Jack doesn’t know what he wants with the teeth, or the fairies, doesn’t even really know what he wants with the Guardians, but he does know that his wards will _not be involved_.

Jack takes a few minutes to collect himself before ducking in through the open window of his room and heading downstairs, a smile plastered on his face.

“Jack!” It is Sophie that spots him first, and she runs over to him, tripping when she is just a few feet away – Jack leaps forward to catch her, swinging her up into his arms in the same movement. He lets out an exaggerated huff, staggering under her near-unnoticeable weight while Anna and Jamie laugh good-naturedly in the background.

“Have you grown again, squirt? I think you must’ve grown since this morning.” Jack teases, voice light. Sophie laughs and wriggles in his arms – Jack has to hastily adjust his grip on her to stop her falling. For a few seconds, Jack is content to bounce Sophie in his arms the way he had when she was a child and wouldn’t stop screaming, when Anna was running on two hours of sleep and the constant worry of a husband on the other side of the country, when Jamie wandered into the room bleary-eyed and yawning to check that his sister was alright. It is that, more than anything, that seems to alert Anna to the fact that something is wrong. 

Jack gives her a look. She shuts her mouth with a worried frown at her children; Jack nods, a tiny dip of his chin, and she accepts that for now.

“So, I spoke to Tooth,” Jack says. “Honest mistake; she said there was a mix-up with a couple of her fairies, they’d planned to come back tonight, but I saved them the trouble.” He digs in his pocket for the coin he’d picked up on his rushed flight back home – he’s not entirely sure what it is, he hadn’t thought to check, but at least it’s still shiny. “Here you go.” Jamie catches the coin, a bright grin on his face.

Next thing he knows, he has an armful of two Bennett children, Jamie’s face pressing against his stomach.

“You’re the best, Jack.” 

He forces a laugh. “You don’t have to tell me that, kiddo.”


	3. In which not everything goes according to (Pitch's) plan, and Jack is no longer neutral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slightly shorter chapter. Now that I actually have the time to write, I seem to be capable of doing everything but. Also, posting at about half two in the morning having only read through it once, so apologies for any mistakes, they are completely my own.
> 
> Also I really love Pitch. That may have come across.

“What are you doing here?” Jack hisses even before the sight has fully sunk in. He can’t quite organise his thoughts properly – perhaps lingering damage from the swift knock on the head administered by the Easter Bunny only a few short hours previous.

That surely makes more sense than the sight of the four Guardians crowded into Jamie’s room, mouths agape. Well, Sanderson looks rather amused by the entire situation, but the remaining three continue to stare at him with looks of what can only be described as appalled fascination. This wasn’t quite what Jack had expected to find when coming to check on Jamie – he’d heard a slight bump and immediately assumed the worst. He’d thought maybe Pitch had singled out his family, had shown up to steal them away or feast on their fears; he’d expected to find nightmares crammed into every shadowy corner; even the appearance of a curious spirit or two was more likely than _this_. 

A small mass collides with his chest and what breath was left in his lungs leaves him with a soft huff. He looks down and gets the impression of bright feathers before Baby Tooth is flitting around his head, chirping in that high, fast language that the fairies share. Despite her chatter, though, Jack can’t focus on her for long and his gaze is drawn back to the Guardians, all of whom seem to have recovered themselves enough to shut their mouths.

Jack can almost taste the questions in the air.

“What are _we_ doin’…” The Easter Bunny starts, incredulous, his voice trailing away into nothing as words fail him.

“We came to see the child whose tooth you found,” Toothiana explains, her voice soft as she glances at the peacefully-sleeping Jamie. “We didn’t ex – _I_ didn’t expect to find you here as well.” She seems confused, feathers twitching rapidly. She hovers beside North, the humming of her wings almost too faint for Jack to detect. A mockery of a smile twists Jack’s lips.

“Yes, well, I’m pretty sure you’ve heard the stories, right? Jack Frost, too busy wasting his time with mortals to pay attention to his fellow spirits.” There’s a rather gratuitous amount of air-quotes thrown in there. “I though everyone knew I only stuck around with humans.”

“We had heard rumours, but…” North waves a hand. “Spirits, they say many things, yes? And very few of these things are true. I never thought…”

Jack raises an eyebrow when North fails to finish, leaning casually against his staff. The Easter Bunny catches his attention next; he finally seems to have recovered himself enough to speak coherently. Jack waits. This should be good.

“I knew you’d thrown ya lot in with humans, but I didn’t think you were _livin’ with ‘em_!” He says, voice gradually increasing in both volume and pitch until Jack and Toothiana hiss simultaneously at him, gesturing to Jamie, who only snuffles and rolls over. Jack lets out an unnecessary breath from between gritted teeth. The kid could sleep through a hurricane. “I thought ya just checked in with ‘em every few years, made sure they were doin’ okay before buggerin’ off again!” Jack clenches his jaw at that and draws himself up.

“Then you thought _wrong_ ,” he says, voice tight. “I may not be Guardian material, but that doesn’t mean I don’t look out for my _own family_!”

All four of them gasp at that, even Sanderson, an exclamation point forming above his head. The Easter Kangaroo’s ears are pressed flat to his skull, and North’s hands have balled into fists. Their reaction is strange, but at least they all seem to have calmed down a little, Jack supposes. Toothiana’s hands are pressed against her mouth, and Baby Tooth seems intent on burrowing into the skin at the curve of his neck, her chirps more distressed now.

“Oh Jack, I’m so sorry, we didn’t know,” she starts, before Jack cuts her off, confusion stronger than ever.

“Didn’t know what?” Jack asks, but it is as though she hasn’t heard him, still too wrapped up in her apology. It is nice of her to go to such lengths, and Jack does appreciate it, he does – he would just appreciate it more if she listened.

“…Of course we understand, family is important to all of us, and of course you would want to protect them, and protect the part of you from before…”

“From before _what_?” Jack interrupts again, and this time he manages to get her attention.

“From – well, from before you became Jack Frost,” she says, voice less certain now, glancing at the others as though for support. They are all watching Jack, though, waiting for his response, and he can’t help but wonder if they are being serious. Surely they don’t think… No, they have to know better than that, they’ve been around for so long now; surely they have to know how it works with spirits such as him.

“I don’t know where you got that from,” he starts, shaking his head. “But I wasn’t anyone before I was Jack Frost. I’ve been looking after this family for two hundred and eighty years, but I was born from the pond three hundred years ago. This is all I’ve ever been.”

“But we were all _someone_ before we became spirits,” Toothiana tries, and Jack can’t help but jump when North near howls with laughter, dropping the sack of – what are those, teeth? How did Jack not notice those before? – to slap his knee and gasp something about Bunny. Jack flinches a mere second too late and opens his mouth to utter a warning, staff raising in case he needs to resort to more desperate measures, but the light has already flicked on.

“Jack?” Jamie yawns. “What’s going on?”

Jack immediately hops up onto the bed beside Jamie and settles down cross-legged, staff resting across his knees.

“You’ve got visitors, kiddo.”

Jamie is, of course, shocked. Not that the Guardians exist, Jack has always made sure that there is no doubt in his family’s minds in that regard, but rather that they should all suddenly show up in his room like this, for no discernible reason. He spends a few short moments fawning over them – it is only to be expected, Jack reminds himself, quashing any unreasonable flickers of jealousy. They are, after all, something new and different and exciting. It should come as no surprise that Jamie is so enamoured of them.

Soon enough, though, he turns away from them, to face Jack again, his gap-toothed smile as bright and beautiful as any Jack has ever seen.

“Ohmygosh, Jack this is _awesome_ , did you convince them to come here, is this to make up for the tooth, because I completely didn’t mind, but this is so cool!”

Jack laughs and runs his hand through Jamie’s unruly bedhead. “Slow down kiddo, breathe. You know, that important thing that humans have to do?” Jamie nods a few times, leaping up to throw his arms around Jack’s neck and almost dislodging them both from their somewhat unstable perch. Jack catches himself just in time, a grinning Jamie still plastered against him, but all of the leaping around has disturbed Abby, and it seems she has just the one thing one her mind. With lips pulled back in a vicious snarl, muzzle wrinkled and hackles up, it is easy to remember that dogs like Abby were originally bred for hunting. It’s even easier to remember that the age-old argument for persuading Jack Frost to give in and accept a dog into the household is the simple phrase ‘guard dog’.

Three of the four Guardians have their sights fixed upon the growling greyhound, whilst Sanderson watches Jack and Jamie trade fiercely amused grins. It’s true that this meeting only came about because of Pitch Black and his plots, but Jack can’t see why he would concern Jamie at this point. Anna has been informed, Jack has reinforced the wards against evil spirits set up by a grateful dryad many years ago, and if Jack can keep the children out of this then so much the better.

A small hand reaches out to tap the patched-up alarm clock on Jamie’s bedside table, and immediately the room is thrown into chaos. There is no way that Anna can’t hear what’s going on.

Jack opens the door to Jamie’s room and ushers Abby through, shouting his apology down the stairs as Abby hurtles down them. He thinks he hears a distinctly unimpressed ‘mhm’ echo back to him, but it’s hard to say for certain. There are stares boring into his back again but Jack ignores them in favour of –

_darkness_

_cold, it’s so cold_

_Jack, I’m scar-_

_creeping slithering crawling_

_fear, feel the fear_

_HERE I AM_

Jack is on his knees and shaking when his vision returns, but he can’t have been out for more than a few seconds because no-one has moved. He staggers to his feet and almost collapses again, but he grips his staff with both hands and uses it to keep himself upright – there are five concerned gazes turned upon him, but he cares only for one.

Jack has never seen Jamie look so afraid, but he can’t allow that. Fear will draw Pitch in, will make him stronger.

Staff resting against his shoulder, Jack draws Jamie close and presses a rough kiss to his forehead. “Don’t worry,” he breathes against the skin. “I know you’re scared, but it’s gonna be alright, you’ll see.” He pulls back to stare at Jamie’s watery eyes, vision still a little off centre. He manages to drag a grin onto his face and runs as best he can towards the window.

“No, Jack-!”

For the briefest of moments he turns back. He can’t see the Guardians, can’t see anything but scared brown eyes beneath a mop of warm brown hair.

“Would I trick you?”

Jamie’s _‘yes!’_ is lost to the sound of the wind.

 

He can feel it, can feel that there’s already something there at his pond when he arrives. Ever since he left the house, left the Guardians, left his children, left their mother, her lip bitten to bleeding earlier that evening, he has been off, has felt something wrong. Now, though, there is a creeping sensation pulling him down from the sky and out of the West wind’s embrace. It is a sickly thing, pervasive and unsettling. He knows before he lands who will be waiting for him.

In all of his three hundred years, this is the first time that Jack has encountered Pitch Black.

“I remember you, you know.”

Jack spins around, staff held defensively across his chest, eyes narrowed in a glare that he learned from Anna’s great-great-grandfather. Pitch Black is nowhere to be seen, but when dealing with the King of Nightmares, that means absolutely nothing; there is a chuckle like breaking glass. Jack forces himself not to turn towards the sound. The shadows at the edge of his vision writhe and fall still when he moves his head to try to get a better look.

“Really?” Jack replies, and he is proud that his voice neither shakes nor cracks. Undoubtedly it does not matter; Pitch Black can feel fear, he must know that Jack’s throat is tight, his every sense singing with it. “I didn’t think we’d met.”

The laughter comes again, clear and sharp.

“There was darkness, and then there was fear – and so, me. Oh yes, I remember you very well, Jack Frost.”

Jack takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, pushing his fear away. This isn’t a situation to which he knows a good response; usually when faced with difficult decisions (ones that do not directly involve the wellbeing of his family, that is) he throws a snowball at the cause and flits away whilst they are still distracted. With Pitch, that seems a dangerous route to go down. Perhaps fortunately, Pitch doesn’t give him the chance.

“Though I have to say, Frost, I certainly didn’t expect to see _you_ here. Are you here on the Guardian’s behest? I must admit, I was quite surprised when I saw you all together – I’d always assumed you were rather less of a team player than that.”

That stings, cuts him as Pitch must’ve known it would. Many spirits are solitary, but none of them are so thoroughly out of touch with the rest of the spirit world as Jack is – he wouldn’t trade his family for anything, wouldn’t even consider it, but to have his shortcomings laid bare in front of him like this… It shouldn’t matter, Jack tells himself, it _doesn’t_ matter.

“That’s not why I was there,” he manages, biting his lip when more threatens to bubble up his throat, over his tongue. He hopes that Pitch cannot somehow hear it.

“Oh? A neutral party, then. How droll.”

Pitch drifts away then, sliding easily over the ice of the pond – _Jack’s_ pond, and surely that’s why the Nightmare King chose this spot. Shadows clutch at the hem of his robe before melting back into the ice. His hands are clasped behind his back, but Jack can see the grey fingers tapping restlessly against one another. They twitch out of time; it seems so strange to Jack, when the rest of the man appears so poised and in control of himself.

“They don’t understand it, do they? Don’t know what it is to be forgotten, don’t have to watch as their belief dwindles away into nothing. I felt your fear then, Jack, and I can feel it still now, buried though it is. There is a part of you, so small that it has become almost unnoticeable, that still fears being forgotten.

“So explain this to me, if you will; a spirit that has spent so little of his lifetime amongst his own kind, who _chooses_ his own isolation, and yet he finds himself amongst those that would twist him into their ally. What would that spirit be doing there, Jack?”

“Maybe that spirit was curious about the sudden lack of tooth fairies,” Jack replies, purposefully vague. It is probably for the best that he plays along with Pitch’s game.

“Why would you care about the fairies?” Pitch has abandoned hypotheticals, then. Jack is likely safe in doing the same.

“It’s not the fairies I was worried about,” Jack says defensively. “It’s what the lack of them implies, and what that could mean for me.” At this Pitch looks even more confused, lips pulling down at the corners. He has stopped wandering at least, sharp gaze fixed solely on Jack – he shudders almost imperceptibly. Millennia seem to be almost physically present in that expression, a weight pressing down on Jack’s chest; Pitch’s age and the years he has seen pass are a palpable thing in the air between them.

“And how exactly would it-“ He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale at the sight of Sanderson, arms crossed over his chest and foot tapping. Despite his initial shock, the Nightmare King seems to recover quickly, his laugh lower now than before, richer and lacking in sharp edges. “Ah, now _this_ is who I was looking for.”

Awe. That’s all Jack really has time to feel, his fear long forgotten, as he watches the Sandman fight. He would never even have considered that the placid spirit might have combat experience, but then, one didn’t live for as long as he had without picking up a few things here or there. Pitch, despite his age, despite his slow anger, despite his brute strength, cannot keep up with the golden whips that Sanderson has called to his hands. Jack can’t help but flinch at the impact of the Nightmare King against the frozen surface of the pond. The ice doesn’t break, of course, doesn’t even crack and it doesn’t appear to have damaged the Nightmare King in any way shape or form, but even so it does not look… pleasant.

Jack finally steps forward after Pitch has been thrown against a tree, the trunk cracking slightly upon impact. Sanderson looks up at Jack, one brow quirked, and he does not need the use of his sand to convey his question.

“Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

Of course, Pitch seems most contrite. He scrambles back away from them as quickly as he can, long limbs that held such grace previously now uncoordinated and awkward. One hand is stretched out towards them imploringly – Jack can see it trembling. Pitch babbles, something that Jack certainly wouldn’t have expected from the Nightmare King, but as quickly as it was drawn down, his expression melts away into a curled smirk. Jack can see his eyes glinting in the shadow of his brow and takes a step back even before the wave of what can only be nightmares descends upon them.

For a moment, everything is darkness and confusion. Jack is lifted off of his feet and buffeted back and forth like a toy – even three centuries of flight have not prepared him for this and it takes only seconds for him to lose all sense of direction. He cannot tell which way is up, and all around him the nightmares wrap and cling to his skin like oil. There’s no air, no space, the sand floods his throat and his chest, and Jack may not have had to breathe for as long as he can remember but the panic is crushing and all consuming, he needs this intrusion out of him, out of him now, needs to hack the infection from his very centre, needs to get away, if only he could

just

breathe.

Everything turns white for a few seconds, and Jack’s grip on his staff is enough to make the wood creak in protest. Then the awful, cloying sand is gone and air rushes back into his lungs, the winds howling their anger – Jack knows that he has done something, can feel the ice flaking on his skin as he opens his eyes. 

The nightmares that had surrounded him are gone – Jack can see no trace of them beyond a fine dusting of black sand coating him, peeling away as the ice does, and a frozen shadow on the surface of his pond. Their strange, glowing eyes are gone, their ribbon-like tails still, but he can see the outline of their vicious mouths and wicked hooves. He’s never encountered anything like this before. Even the spirits tied to death cannot compare. Jack is reminded a little of the kelpies he has encountered – they like to take the form of horses and try to lure people to their deaths, too.

Up above him, North’s sleigh careens through the sky, hordes of nightmares breaking apart and reforming around them , the three visible Guardians slicing their way through and yet never seeming to make a dent. All the while, Pitch hovers above them, hands clasped behind his back again, fingers twitching, and Sanderson is… Sanderson is…

Jack swings around, but there is no sign of the golden figure.

He launches himself up, as high as he can before the winds catch him, fierce and strong and sharing his desperation. Sanderson is nowhere to be seen, the Guardians are outnumbered, and Pitch just _looks_ and _laughs_.

The winds steal away his howl and add their voices to it until all of the nightmares have turned their attention to him because this cannot be happening, this cannot be the end of a spirit who has existed for as long as the very Earth itself can remember, a spirit that has stood so strong and resolute against the years. This cannot happen to one of the only spirits to ever offer Jack even some small measure of comfort and understanding.

Ice and snow and blistering winds erupt from him as his emotions reach their peak, his screams lost in the thunderous bellow of the winds and the cracking of the freezing sand. Scores of nightmares are stopped in their tracks and shattered, all of Jack’s energy and power rushing from him in one fell swoop. Sand falls as rain, and Jack watches with no small amount of vindictive satisfaction as Pitch topples from his vantage point. He lists back in the air, winds struggling to keep him aloft without any form of guidance or cohesion between then, each struggling to wrap around him.

Slender arms pluck him from their grasp, and he gets a mouthful of feathers when his head lolls to one side. Toothiana, he manages to deduce, pain splitting from the very base of his skull to the crown of his head. His eyes won’t quite stay open properly, and he doesn’t think that he can speak just about yet, but he has to know what happened, has to know where Sanderson disappeared to. He forces the syllable past his uncooperative tongue.

“Sandy?”

Toothiana just shakes her head at him, mouth pressed into a thin line, and sets him down in the sleigh, thin fingers combing through his hair. He curls up around his staff as best he can, forehead pressed against the knotted wood, gleaning what comfort he can from the familiar object. No-one seems willing to stop him; no-one seems to be paying him much attention, all of them lost in their pain. Jack can understand that. He has lost a great many family members over the years.

In the distance, Jack can hear the triumphant braying of the nightmares, and he can picture them all too clearly, eyes glowing in their shifting faces. He supresses a shiver.

Up in the front of the sleigh, he can hear the others talking, though the words don’t make sense to him. Whether they’re speaking another language or not, Jack can’t tell, but either way it means nothing to him.

Something in his pocket wriggles, and he starts a little before Baby Tooth claws her way free, eyes wide and sad in her small face. Jack can’t even manage a twitch of his lips for her, but she seems to understand, curling into his collarbone, breath hitching as she tries not to cry. He wants to tell her that it’s fine, that he’ll understand if she wants to cry, that he won’t think any less of her, but the words won’t come.

He doesn’t notice the sleigh passing through a portal, doesn’t notice the vast expanse of the North Pole beneath them. When huge, hairy hands haul him from the back of the sleigh he pays them no mind, staggering almost blindly after the Guardians. He doesn’t notice the sudden temperature changes, doesn’t notice the delicious smells or amazing sights, doesn’t notice that the entire busy workshop grinds to a standstill when they enter.

What he does notice is the expectant look on all of the surrounding faces that changes to confusion, fear, sorrow and disappointment when their eyes fall on him and realise that he is not the fourth member that they had been waiting for, hoping for.

The room seems suddenly too big, too cavernous, too full of heavy silence.

Jack turns and storms away.


	4. In which there is manipulation abound, and Jack has priorities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention in the last chapter's notes that I was going on holiday with my friends, which is why this chapter is a bit late - sorry!
> 
> Unlike last time, I have actually read through this chapter properly for mistakes, but that doesn't mean that none have slipped through. Nonetheless, happy reading!

 

The room that Jack has finally decided to hole himself away in is small and cold, the window thrown open as wide as it will go to let the winds in. They are soft and melancholy, curling through the room without any of their usual enthusiasm and energy, barely strong enough to ruffle Jack’s hair, but he is grateful for their presence nonetheless. From somewhere in the workshop, the sound of bells echoes faintly. Jack curls up tighter on the window ledge, buries his face in his knees and presses his hands over his ears; his staff stands propped against the wall. He takes no comfort in its closeness.

A tentative knock at the door snaps Jack from his thoughts, and when he lifts his head he is surprised to see that the majority of the room has been coated in a thin layer of ice. He takes a deep breath and draws the ice back towards himself until it covers only a small area around him.

“Yes,” he calls, voice hoarse. Hastily clearing his throat, Jack looks over to the door just in time to see North walk in, his face ashen, mouth thin.

“Jack,” he begins, and then stops, clearly unsure of how to go on. Jack watches quietly.

“Jack, you must understand that we do not blame you,” North seems the sort that is good at comfort, but Jack is closed off, unreceptive. It is difficult to accept comfort from a being that has ignored him for the majority of his existence. At least Sanderson’s dreams had acknowledged him. “And none of us would want you to blame yourself, Sandy least of all.”

“I don’t blame myself,” Jack murmurs, looking down and away, focusing on the fractal patterns in the ice around him. He takes a deep breath and looks up again, meeting North’s eyes properly for the first time since they met, not yet three days ago. Has it really been such a short time? “I don’t. But that doesn’t stop me feeling guilty, or wishing I’d been that little bit faster. I didn’t know Sanderson the same way that you did, but I still wish I could’ve done something more.”

“More? Jack, you stood up to Pitch! This is no small thing; Sandy would be _proud_ of what you did.”

There is no sign of insincerity in his tone, no hint of a lie in his face. Jack manages a weak smile in return, almost toppling out of the window when North claps a hand to his shoulder.

Jack follows North from the room after a little prompting, if only because he does not otherwise know what to do with himself. He feels peculiarly heavy – something he is not accustomed to after so many years with the winds as his companions. It feels as though the stares of the yeti are still pressing down on his chest, making it hard for him to take in enough air to speak. At the sight of the enormous globe in the centre of the room, however, he cannot help himself, and pushes back against the heavy gazes, pushes back enough to ask,

“What is this thing?”

He almost expects the Easter Kangaroo to retort with something along the lines of ‘it’s a globe, ya dill’, but he refrains. It is Toothiana that answers him, flitting close to his side where Baby Tooth can see her, from her safe spot still tucked into Jack’s collar.

“It shows our believers,” she says, voice soft even in the echoing chamber. “Every one of those lights is a child that still believes in us, a child that we still have a duty to protect.”

“But the lights… They’re going out,” Jack catches an errant breeze and drifts up towards the globe. There is no feasible way that the lights should be flickering out of existence so quickly, not under normal circumstances. Something hard lodges deep within Jack’s chest. “Pitch – he’s tipped the balance.” The nightmares must be spreading like wildfire, without Sandy’s dreams to counteract them. The longer the unbroken stream of nightmares…

Jack didn’t even want to consider it.

“Hey, cheer up ya sad sacks!” The Easter Bunny’s voice is full of forced cheer, but it bolsters Jack’s spirits to hear nonetheless. “Easter is _tomorrow_. Now I say, we work together, we pull out all the stops, and we get the ankle-biters believing again!” Jack finds himself nodding along, though in truth, he isn’t even sure whether he is counted as part of the Pooka’s ‘we’. When he moves to stand amongst the Guardians, however, he is given an encouraging smile by North, a curt nod from the Easter Kangaroo and a feather-light touch to his shoulder courtesy of Toothiana.

North rallies them to the sleigh, but he is stopped short by Bunnymund, who insists that if they visit his Warren, they do so on _his_ terms, using _his_ tunnels. Personally, Jack can see no problem with this, but if the look on North’s face is anything to go by, he ought to be really very worried.

Despite North’s quite apparent trepidation, Jack whoops delightedly as he skids through the earthen tunnels, ice cracking in his wake; Toothiana flits easily besides him, laughing in a way Jack has never heard her laugh before, light and free. The Easter Bunny leads the way of course, sure-footed and perfectly at ease whilst North hollers at the top of his rather considerable lungs. An elf – or what Jack assumes is an elf, at least – skids along with them before tumbling to a halt. Jack lands easily, taking in the lush green surroundings and gently humid atmosphere. The heat is not as oppressive here as at the Tooth Palace, but it is enough to make Jack simultaneously restless and yet feel as though he is in dire need of a nap. Bunnymund spreads his arms in welcome even as two stone eggs lumber into view behind him.

The easy feeling of security radiating from the Warren disappears as soon as Bunnymund’s ears twitch, nose working overtime, his every movement screaming _intruder_. A sound like screaming echoes through the tunnels, and Jack shifts his weight, ready to attack or defend, his grip on his staff a lifeline.

Yet the source of the screaming emerges in a flurry of blonde hair and fairy wings made of plastic and netting. Jack drops his staff and dives forward to catch Sophie as she stumbles, before the Guardians have even registered that the supposed threat is nothing more than an excited toddler – not to be underestimated, but certainly not a construct belonging to Pitch. She feels as warm and fragile in his arms as ever, even when she throws her arms around his neck and _squeezes_.

Jack can’t help but squeeze back, just a little, burying his face in Sophie’s mop of hair and just _breathing_ , more freely than he has since Pitch first stepped out onto his pond. It takes him a couple of seconds to realise that he is rocking and bouncing her in his arms, murmuring her name over and over, but after the night he has had, he thinks that he can allow himself this much. Sophie doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss, her small hands still fisted in his hoodie. Baby Tooth buzzes beside his ear, and it isn’t long before Sophie notices this and begins to squirm in his arms; he sets her down before she can hurt herself, and Baby Tooth makes sure to keep her amused by flitting always just out of her reach. All he really wants to do is keep a close eye on her, or better yet, tuck her up in his arms, or anywhere that he knows she will be safe. That is not an option currently, though, so instead he turns to face the Guardians, all of whom look slightly shell-shocked.

“What is _she_ doin’ _here_?” Bunnymund finally wheezes, turning to watch as Sophie hurtles around after Baby Tooth. Jack has no answers for him, but North pats down the front of the coat, and winces.

“Snow globe,” is all he gives by way of explanation, leaving Jack almost as confused as before, though the others seem to accept it easily enough. A Guardian thing, then, perhaps.

“But she can’t be _here_!” It sounds as though the Easter Bunny is truly panicking now, and Jack chuckles, because here is something he is good at, this is something he can do and do _well_. A slightest breath, taken on by the diminished wind carries the lovingly crafted snowflake that Jack had been turning over in his palm towards Bunnymund, even as Jack swings Sophie up onto his shoulders. Bunnymund’s nose twitches, but Jack can see the beginnings of a grin at the edges of his mouth, his muzzle crinkling slightly. Jack bounces a little, making Sophie giggle.

“Hey Soph, wanna help us paint some eggs?” He asks, his voice bright, even as Sophie winds her fingers into his hair and _yanks_.

“Easter eggs!” She agrees happily.

When Bunnymund steps closer, Jack hands Sophie to him, well aware of her love for all things fluffy and rabbit-related, and uses the opportunity to retrieve his staff. This should be good for the both of them, Jack thinks, as he watches Sophie and Bunnymund walk hand in hand. Sophie needs to learn that other spirits are not automatically evil just because they do not get along with him, and Bunnymund needs to learn a thing or two about the reality of children – something that, Jack suspects, Guardianhood does a very poor job of preparing one for.

Baby Tooth returns to his hood, chattering pleasantly in his ear, though Jack only catches about one word in five. He grins anyway at her excited tone, and hurries after Bunnymund and Sophie, turning a few careless cartwheels along the way. Apart from the incident with Jamie – and he isn’t even really sure that counts – this is the first time in a long time that the Guardians have had the chance to interact with an actual human child.

Might as well throw them in at the deep end.

Despite their apparent lack of experience, though, Sophie is as enamoured of the Guardians as they are of her, and takes clear delight in chasing them, the strange walking eggs (and Jack is going to have to have a talk with Bunnymund about that because, really?) and the elf that had fallen through the tunnel with them.

For his part, Jack is still stuck on what appears to be flowers producing puffs of some form of pastel paint. Maybe he’ll beg a clipping from Bunnymund – these things could keep even the most creative child entertained for hours, and even if he’s never been much good at gardening himself, he’s sure that he and Anna could turn it into a fun project, get the kids involved. Sophie in particular would love the reminder of her time spent at the Warren, even when she’s grown and her memories have faded. Jamie would likely want to study it, figure out how it works – it could be magic, Jack’s certainly not an expert on the subject.

There is a veritable tidal wave of eggs swarming the Warren; Jack glances worriedly around, but the others still seem to be bemused at the _walking eggs_ , and rather less concerned about the logistics of painting and hiding them all under such a tight schedule. But then, the three of them are used to working quickly, to a deadline. Jack is less so.

“How much time do we have?” He asks the room as a whole, but he is ignored in favour of shepherding the now-pastel coloured eggs towards what looks to be a pearlescent river.  Bunnymund directs the eggs with the precision of a drill master, and with the occasional exception, the eggs seem to get the idea well enough. Despite that, Jack can’t help but hold his breath a little when the first eggs tumble from the grass to the river. Not that they need to breathe, and none of them appear to be harmed in the fall, but even so. At this stage, every egg counts.

The elf that had followed them here also ends up in the river. Jack tries – and fails – not to be too delighted by this.

Given how much the Pooka supposedly complains about the Easter-time rush, and the hardships of working with perishable goods, it takes a surprisingly short amount of time for all of the eggs to be painted to a satisfactory degree. Jack can’t help but get the impression that Bunnymund would have preferred to hand-paint a fair few more eggs than he did, but beggars can’t be choosers.  Once painted, the eggs need very little direction, swarming towards the exits in droves. They must be capable of hiding themselves then, without instruction, at least to a point.

Jack walks towards Bunnymund, who is crouched at the edge of a small hill, surveying his troops, Sophie curled up and yawning in his arms. The wind down here is weaker than Jack is used to, less responsive; walking by necessity rather than by choice is strange and unpleasant.

“Look at the little mite – she’s all tuckered out,” Bunnymund says, his voice the softest that Jack has heard yet. Sophie is near enough asleep already, and looks perfectly content in Bunnymund’s arms; though it makes his heart clench to have to break up the scene, Jack knows that he has to take Sophie home, has to see her wrapped up safely in bed. He has to know that she will be okay when this whole mess comes to a head.

“I’ll take her home,” Jack says – though he looks reluctant for a moment to give her up, Bunnymund nods and relinquishes her to Jack.

“I love her,” Toothiana breathes, hovering easily just above them. Jack envies her only briefly; the wind will catch up to him once he is outside of the Warren, he is sure.

Jack smiles and nods to the three Guardians politely, staff in one hand, Sophie tucked into the crook of his other arm, hands locked behind his neck. Bunnymund taps the ground three times and offers Jack a quick grin and a tilt of the head – Jack’s laughter lingers behind him as he leaps down into the tunnel.

 

Ever since she was a very young baby, Sophie’d been a clinger. Once her hands had locked onto something – be it hair, clothes, each other or really anything that she didn’t want to relinquish – then it was all but impossible to make her let go. This would be why Jack found himself falling about her room as he tried to pry her arms from around his neck as gently as he possibly could. Apparently, though, all of his stumbling around had alerted Anna to his presence, and she pushed the door open only moments later, dressing gown tied tightly around her waist, smothering a yawn with one hand. Jack felt a quick flash of guilt surge through him. He hadn’t meant to worry Anna with his news, but he wanted to keep her as up-to-date as possible.

“She ended up in the Easter Bunny’s Warren,” Jack whispers, smiling apologetically at Anna. “She’s fine, just a bit overtired.”

“I think you should be more worried about the Warren,” Anna chuckles warmly. “She can be a handful.” Jack laughs along, and finally succeeds in lowering Sophie onto her bed without falling on his backside when the same

sickening

feeling

hits

_Jack!_

_Jack?_

He gasps like he’s drowning _that voice_ and stammers his apologies to Anna _I know that voice_ before diving out of the window into the crisp night. The winds scoop him up _why is it so familiar_ and he hurtles in the direction of the voice, barely pausing to listen or take note of his surroundings. A very distant part of him is aware of Baby Tooth’s distress, but he can’t find it in himself to stop _Mary it sounds like Mary_ and comfort her _sounds like Mary but isn’t I’d always remember her voice._

_Jack!_

He is intimately familiar with the woods surrounding Burgess, and he can quite confidently say that there has never been a broken bed-frame there before.

Baby Tooth warbles warnings in his ear, and hunkers down against his shoulder, but Jack steps closer, peering down into the darkness underneath the bed. Unbidden, memories float to the surface, memories of stories told over generations, stories of the Boogeyman and his predilection for hiding under beds. Jack turns to leave, to find and maybe even fetch the other Guardians once Easter has been dealt with, but the voice returns to him, a plaintive sound.

_Jack?_

He can’t ignore that voice – he gets the feeling that he never could.

Using the end of his staff, Jack snaps the rotting wooden beams and hops over the bed before he has a chance to really think this through and change his mind. The darkness swallows him whole, utterly complete and impenetrable, and spits him out in a narrow, shadowed tunnel. Baby Tooth ruffles her feathers and snaps at him, but echoing through the chambers, Jack can hear creaks and rustling not caused by any wind – the winds down here feel tainted, weak, and can’t muster the strength to move his clothing.

“Baby Tooth, _Baby Tooth_ , shh, c’mon, I need to find out where that voice is coming from,” he hisses, and she puffs up indignantly in response, face wrinkled in righteous fury. He knows that he should be heading back already, knows that this is perhaps the worst idea he’s ever had – which says a lot – but it’s already a little too late to turn back. “No, Baby Tooth, stop it, we have to…”

He trails off as the tunnel opens suddenly into a vast, sweeping chamber, seemingly carved straight from the rock. It is a little like a labyrinth, and a little like a city, and a little like a funhouse, with delicate, arching structures that lead nowhere, steps that are metres apart, and a grand, vaulted ceiling from which hang iron-wrought cages. Each cage contains at least thirty fairies, causing them to swing with the movement of the small creatures, and their chattering echoes back and forth until it becomes a cacophony of fear. There is no small amount of relief in their voices when they spot Jack, though, and he _forces_ the pathetic wind here to carry him up closer, immediately setting to work on the first cage.

It isn’t until he has freed the first cage of fairies that Jack thinks to look down, and his breath catches at the sight of millions upon millions of golden cylinders. Are those the containers used for storing the teeth? Is this where Pitch has been hiding them? Maybe if he can grab some, get even a few back to Toothiana – but no, he has to focus, and so he moves onto the next cage, making short work of that one also.

A biting chuckle snaps his concentration, turning him from the cages to face one of the walls where a dark shadow twists out of his line of sight. He throws himself towards it thoughtlessly.

He follows the shadow and voice up stairs, across bridges, around corners, twisting and turning until he can’t see the exit, can’t even remember which direction it is. All the while, he glances around warily, remembering Pitch’s fondness for ambushes. He breathes shallowly as though he requires the air – a fight or flight instinct that he had thought long buried – and his chest aches until he almost believes he can feel a racing heart. Here, in the half-light and echoing shadows, it is all too easy to remember that Pitch was able to take down Sandy, one of the more powerful spirits that Jack has encountered, and certainly the oldest. He can’t fight Pitch, and in this place, in Pitch’s domain, he knows that attempting to flee would be futile. But he is here now, and he can’t simply do nothing.

“Don’t be afraid, Jack,” the shadows croon. Jack suppresses a shiver, and Pitch laughs, a strange, rolling sound now. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The wind drops him, and he stumbles a little, bodily swinging himself around.

“Afraid?” Jack asks, his voice just straying to the edge of taunting before backing down again. He holds his staff in front of him like a shield, knuckles even paler than usual as he grips the wood. “I’m not afraid of you.” And to his own surprise, he finds that he isn’t. He’s cautious, he’s wary, he’s angry, he’s confused, but he isn’t afraid.

He turns, and Pitch is right there, directly in front of him, facing a blank wall with his hands behind his back – a ploy, maybe, to show that they are empty. It’s useless. Jack has seen him summon and wield an enormous scythe of black sand, seemingly from thin air, he isn’t about to be fooled by Pitch’s apparently unarmed state. Even so, Jack thinks that he could move fast enough to catch Pitch by surprise; in that way, at least, he would have some small advantage, however brief it may be. Pitch turns slightly, just enough that Jack can see his profile, can see the wicked curl of his smile.

“Maybe not,” Pitch agrees easily, and it sounds as though he believes Jack. “But you are afraid of something.”

“You think so, huh?”

“I _know_ so,” Pitch laughs for a brief moment before his voice is serious again, almost… sad. Jack bites his lip at the strangeness of it. “It’s the one thing I always know. People’s greatest fears. Yours was a bit of a surprise – it’s rare to see a spirit so deeply invested in the lives of mortals, especially winter spirits like yourself. Why, you’re so far gone, that you can’t bear even the thought of them coming to harm.”

Jack grits his teeth as Pitch chuckles warmly, but he can’t contain his yelp when the floor melts away into shadow. He tumbles only briefly before reconnecting with the ground – his staff is knocked from his hand upon impact, and he scratches at the dirt floor trying to find it, disorientated and furious that Pitch would _dare_ to threaten his family. The instant that he has his staff back safely, Jack is on his feet, spinning quickly around to scan for any small movement. There is none, and there is no sign of Pitch, yet Jack already knows better than to let his guard down.

“But worse than that, you’re afraid there’ll come a time when you no longer can protect them, because they no longer have need of you, no longer recognise your existence. You must’ve pictured it, surely – all of those years come to naught, the only humans ever to see you blind and helpless, and so very mortal.

“Did you never wonder why, Jack? Why the Man in the Moon chose _you_ to be like this, why this family can see you when no others can, what’s so special about them that they’ve somehow come to be under the protection of a spirit?”

Jack’s been backed up against a brick wall, eyes fixed on the form of Pitch Black, rarely more than half-solid and sliding gently around him. Silver and yellow eyes gleam in the darkness as Pitch steps forwards, materialising slowly from the thick pool of shadows at his feet. Teeth glint in the darkness, sharp and uneven, and Jack finds himself shrinking back even further at the display, some deep-rooted instinct urging him to keep his distance from Pitch as much as he possibly can.

“Well never fear, because the answers to your questions are right here.”

_Here_ is apparently a golden cylinder – one of the tooth boxes, Jack realises a little belatedly. As if in a trance, he reaches out to take it from Pitch, fingers trembling gently, and stares at the small painting on the end. It does look a little like him, if he were a human boy, but surely Pitch can’t think he’s that stupid –

At the last second, Pitch jerks it away, disappearing with a clichéd swirl of his coat and throaty chuckle.

Jack hurries after him, using up as much of the wind’s paltry strength, and simply leaping when that fails him. He has no way of knowing where Pitch is now, but it seems that Pitch is fond of playing games with him. Jack doesn’t doubt that before long, the Nightmare King will reveal himself once again. Hurrying down the steps, Jack keeps his gaze moving, always aware and watching for Pitch’s presence in his peripheral vision.

“Everything you should have known, everything you lost, right here in this little box, oh you want it so badly, you want to take it fly off with it, return to your family and never look back, but you’re afraid, afraid of what I might do, of what the Guardians might think, you’re afraid of disappointing them. Well I can certainly put your mind at ease in that regard; they’ll never trust you, not really. They are Guardians, and you care for children, but in all of your memory, have they ever spared you the time of day? You mean nothing to them, Frost, nothing more than a means to an end, and you know it.”

Jack doesn’t know how much more of this he can take; his head is spinning, and everything seems to bounce and rattle around in his head. His vision is off, he can barely see straight, and when he doubles over, the feeling of nausea only intensifies.

“Stop it, _stop it_!”

“After all, you’re not one of them.” Jack is in front of the globe in the centre of one of Pitch’s halls, though he can’t quite remember how he came to be there. He is heaving great, unnecessary gulps of air as a steadily throbbing pain begins to build behind his eyelids. He can’t quite focus on Pitch, or what the Nightmare King is saying – he just wants it to stop, he wants to go home to his family and make sure that they are safe, find a way to wrap them all in his arms and never let them anywhere near anything that might hurt them again. Yet he digs deep, draws himself into as upright a position as he can manage, and tries for defiant.

“You don’t know what I am.”

Pitch laughs and shrugs flippantly. “Of course I do, you’re Jack Frost! You care more for your little band of mortals than anything else in existence – it makes you blind, and you leave a mess wherever you go. Why, you’re doing it right now!” The Nightmare King sounds positively delighted with himself. He tosses the tooth box carelessly to Jack, who catches more through instinct than any true desire to hold the thing. It takes a few seconds for the words to seep into his brain.

“What did you do?” He asks softly, voice faint with trepidation. Sparks of something like genuine fear – the first he has felt since stumbling into the Nightmare King’s lair – thrill along his spine. Pitch laughs, open and slightly manic.

“More to the point Jack, what did _you_ do?” He asks, melting back into the darkness, his vicious grin lingering a few seconds afterwards like an afterimage. Jack yells and throws himself forward, on the offensive now that he has broken free from Pitch’s gaze and strange mind game. He swings his staff with wild abandon in the hope that he will catch Pitch with even a glancing, stray blow. Even that would be better than nothing.

The shadows surge upwards, swallowing him up and hurling him around again, almost until he feels sick, before he is deposited once more on solidly-packed earth. His head is spinning, and he can still hear Pitch’s voice, warm and velvet in his ear.

“Happy Easter, Jack.”


	5. In which there are a number of perceived betrayals, and lost memories are found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no words. It has been so long.
> 
> I will finish this story if it kills me.

Jack howls and throws himself bodily at the mossy wall, shrieking for Baby Tooth and the other fairies, shrieking for Pitch to let him back in, to let them go. He is so distracted that it takes him a few minutes to realise where he has been dropped off. The warm earthen tunnel tells him all that he needs to know, but he feels his heart sink as he turns and takes in the sight of the shattered eggs littering the ground before him.

“No,” is all he is capable of uttering, running through the tunnel on shaky legs. “No, no, nonono.” His staff trails behind him like a broken, useless limb, the sound of his footfalls and desperate chanting muffled by the tunnels.

Guided by the softs huffs of wind against his cheeks, he finds the tunnel that leads him to the Guardians – he bursts out in a rush of frigid air, the open, wild winds greeting him like a long lost friend. He has no time to return the sentiments, though, and begs them to carry him as quickly as they can. They comply, and he is able to lose himself however briefly in the gentle currents of air that have surrounded him like a buffer against the incredible speed he is being carried at.

He lands lightly, feeling already that he is intruding on a scene that should never have been allowed to exist. His throat feels swollen shut, and he can’t push any words past his uncooperative tongue – he doesn’t have to.

“Jack! Where were you?” North asks; he sounds concerned, unduly so for a rogue spirit, and the hard knot in Jack’s chest tightens further still. “The nightmares, they attack us in the tunnels. None of the eggs made it to the surface.” _None of them_? How could it be that none of the eggs had managed to slip past the nightmares, found a way to the surface, to hide for the children? Jack can barely believe it, but he can see the gentle tremors wracking Bunnymund’s frame and knows that it’s the truth. His mouth opens and shuts but he can’t find the words to explain himself, to even try to excuse what he has done. Defensively, he brings his hands in front of him, to grasp his staff, perhaps, but the movement catches Toothiana’s eye, along with the glint of gold.

“Jack,” she gasps, one hand reaching towards him though she moves no closer. “Where did you get that?” She glances around his head, flicks her gaze along the length of his form. “Where’s _Baby Tooth_?”

“I was – Pitch, he –” Jack isn’t allowed to finish.

“You were with _Pitch_?” North asks. His eyes narrow as he turns to face Jack fully, hands clenching into fists – Jack is suddenly aware of the strength in those arms, the power contained by all three of these beings, despite the lack of the belief. For a split second, Jack can feel his stomach fall further than it ever did in Pitch’s lair.

“No, I was –”

“Jack, how could you?” Tooth asks, and her voice is trembling; this isn’t something that Jack knows how to deal with, isn’t something that he can laugh his way around.

“I –”

“I knew it,” Bunnymund says, and his voice is flat, dull, and all the more heart-breaking for it. “We _never_ shoulda trusted him!” He is shouting by the end, fist drawn back – Jack flinches away, and it is like someone has flicked a switch. All of the fight seems to drain away, leaving the once tall and proud Pooka slumped before him. Jack feels sick. Bunnymund looks lost, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“Easter is new life,” he says, voice catching at the end of each syllable as though he might burst into tears at any second. It is terrifying in a way that Pitch could never equal, to see the warrior brought so low. “It’s about _hope_. And now it’s gone.”

Jack can’t look any of them in the eye, jaw working furiously around an explanation that seems to have caught somewhere between his tongue and his teeth. There’s a terrible sinking in his gut, and he’s stopped breathing altogether as he sometimes does in times of stress – to his horror, he can feel the beginnings of tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. Before they have a chance to fall, he swipes viciously at them, mouth twisting around a shaky apology. Somewhere in the back of his mind there is a festering anger; at himself, at the Guardians, but at Pitch most of all, because he was _right_. Jack had tried to help, tried to do the right thing, and look at the mess he has made of it.

“Just go,” Bunnymund mutters, turning away from him completely – North and Toothiana hover anxiously at his shoulder, desperately concerned for their friend and colleague. Jack has spent three hundred years on the fringes of the spirit world and society, but never has he felt like such an outsider. It’s never mattered to him before.

He buries both hands in his pocket, a nervous tick developed over years. All around him, the winds cry out their indignation – he knows that it will do no good, that the Guardians will not understand.

When they knock his feet from under him and send him shooting up, up, up, he doesn’t try to stop them, only whisper directions. He should go home, should check on his family, perhaps beg one of the native spirits until they agree to set up even greater protections, but he can’t bear the thought of having to explain this to them. Besides, he tries to rationalise, should Pitch appear again, he can’t risk drawing the Bogeyman to them.

So they carry him south, past the blistering heat of the equator that threatens to send him tumbling from the sky with exhaustion, singing in his ears all the while. Beyond the gentle embrace they’ve constructed around him, he can hear their wild screams. This is the fastest they’ve dared carry him before – Jack knows more than ever that he has no measure of control over them, only trust. Faster and faster they carry him to his destination, but they set him down so gently that his feet barely leave a mark in the soft, dry snow. His knees almost give way.

In his hand, the tooth box begins to freeze solid, harsh frost spreading from his fingertips and sealing it shut, as though he knew what to do with it in the first place. Sickened, he staggers on weak legs to the edge of the ice, tries to hurl the box into the ocean, where it’ll never be seen again, only to find that he can’t. Hunched over, he flinches as though struck when Pitch speaks behind him.

“I thought this might happen,” he says, as though genuinely regretful. The festering anger slams into Jack full-force, whipping him around with a snarl at his lips, shards of ice racing from his staff towards Pitch. As though he is no more substantial than smoke, Pitch drifts to the side, his form blurred and translucent around the edges before reforming, a shadow given physical form. His face is contorted into a mockery of emotions, sympathetic and cruel.

“That they might turn on a rogue spirit such as yourself,” Pitch continues as though he had never been interrupted, as though Jack’s aggression is beneath his notice. “They don’t know how much they’ve hurt you, do they Jack? But _I_ understand.”

“You don’t understand _anything_!” Jack howls, and the voices of the winds join him – he attacks blindly, again and again, tears freezing against his cheek and flaking away as his features twist with rage. Pitch hurls waves of nightmare against the onslaught of ice, but it never comes close to touching Jack. There is a blizzard stirring in the air around him, he can feel it; taste it, sharp against the tip of his tongue. He fights it back with everything he has, stops the reckless attacks because he knows that they will do nothing to Pitch now, not with so much fear to feast upon.

“Oh, _I_ don’t understand what it is to be cast out, tossed aside?” Pitch’s teeth are bared in his defiance, like shards of glass that could cut Jack open, tear him to shreds as easily as the words that spill from between them. “To long for companionship, for a _family_?”

They both go still at that – there could almost be desperation in Pitch’s eye if Jack looks hard enough. He makes an effort to turn away, to stop looking for a reason to agree.

Whether Pitch is right or wrong, what he has done is unforgiveable.

“All those years watching over the humans, watching them age and die, only to be replaced by another aging generation,” Pitch murmurs. “I know your fears, Jack, and I know that all this time you have longed for a family that wouldn’t leave you behind again and again. A _true_ family that can see your potential beyond the games and the parlour tricks.

“You don’t have to wish anymore Jack,” his voice was a soft poison, the kind that killed before you realised you couldn’t breathe. “I can see you. I can see your power – just imagine, if you were free of your ties to the mortals, free to do whatever you pleased! Think of all we could achieve, Jack; look at what we can _do_!” Jack looks, stares at the monolith crafted of nightmares and ice – it looks as though it could shatter the sky. Pitch is a faint presence at his side, barest pressure on his shoulder. Even now, the Bogeyman cannot bring his whole self into the blinding sunlight; only enough to toy with Jack.

“Free?” Jack asks, unable to stop himself.

“Yes!” Pitch’s voice curls around a laugh, delighted now that he believes he’s won. “With you by my side, Jack, we could –”

“That isn’t freedom,” Jack cuts him off, voice sharp as a blade and doing twice the damage. “And it’s not what I want. Now for the last time, leave me alone.” He watches Pitch’s face crumple, but turns away before it can twist in anger, in denial and resignation. The first few steps are a relief, coming up for air after waking in his pond with no name or memories. He feels the creeping shadows before Pitch can speak, that same lurch in his gut, the same slithering against his skin.

Pitch isn’t done with him, he knows.

“You want to be alone? Fine,” he hisses, mercurial and volatile. “But first!”

Jack is moving before he truly has time to process what he’s seeing, the flash of bright feathers clenched in Pitch’s fist like a physical blow. Jerking back, he fumbles against the snow, balance thrown off as the winds whip around him in outrage. The Sisters of Flight were sacred, once. Another cautious step sees Baby Tooth squealing in pain as Pitch’s hand tightens – Jack stumbles back again, stretching a hand towards her. There is nothing he can say to Pitch that will make him let her go for free, but he has to let her know he’s there, that he didn’t just abandon her, he _didn’t_.

“Baby Tooth,” he calls, desperate. “Let her go!” It will do no good but he has to try, has to hope that Pitch will not risk another fight so close to what must be the grand finale of his plan.

“The staff, Jack!” There is a smirk at the corner of that cruel mouth, and this time it is justified. Pitch knows he has won and now Jack knows it too. There are no right choices any more, no paths he could take that would bring a simple, easy solution. There is a part of him, so small that he can almost pretend it doesn’t exist, that wants to bury his head in the snow, to sleep for the next three hundred years and forget everything. There is a part of him that acknowledges that he is a coward.  “You’ve been causing far more problems than a rogue spirit has any right to. Hand it over, and I’ll let her go.”

He’s lying. Jack can see that as plainly as he can see the fear in Baby Tooth’s eyes as she shakes her head at him, chirping high in her throat. As though he is the one that needs reassurance.

In his hand, the staff grows heavier, colder with his indecision. His first thought is of his family, as it always is. To give up his staff would be to give up his role as their protector – to leave them vulnerable to Pitch. But then, what good has he done against Pitch? What has he achieved in this reckless fight? At best, he could keep the nightmares at bay for a time, and even that wouldn’t last forever. Though it weighs heavy in his mind and settles in his chest, he knows what his decision has to be. Baby Tooth can do more for the belief of children than he could, is better suited in the fight against the Bogeyman.

Ice recedes down the knotted wood as it leaves his grasp – the answering smile is an oil slick spread across barely human features.

“Okay,” he says slowly, holding out an upturned palm. “Now let her go.”

Pitch hums as though he is actually considering it, Jack’s staff tapping an agitated rhythm against one shoulder.

“No.” He is careless, throwing the word out at Jack knowing that Jack can do _nothing_. Pitch’s face is fluid, expressions rippling across his features before Jack can identify them, settling finally on gleeful rage. “You wanted to be alone, so _be alone_!”

But Baby Tooth is sharp, her beak sharper where she buries it in Pitch’s skin – her furious babbling is lost beneath a cry of pain and shock. Pitch draws his injured hand back to his chest, only to realise a moment later what foolishness it would be, to have her so close to the rest of him. Almost before Jack can blink, he’s drawn back his hand and hurled her into a chasm, snapping the staff over his knee mere seconds later.

Jack feels it, God help him, he _feels_ it.

The wave of black sand catches him in the chest, throwing him back off his feet and tumbling away after Baby Tooth. Everything is spinning, the cold already seeping into his bones in a way that he’s never truly felt before. The clatter of wood on ice echoes dully in his ears as the broken halves of his staff land beside him, but he can barely keep his eyes open.

He must lose time, he’s sure of it – when he next opens his eyes, he is coated in a fine dusting of powdery snow and his eyelashes are frozen together. Every breath is sharp in his lungs, but he knows that the biting air will do him no damage – the snow, the ice, all of it is _his_ , with or without his staff.

“Baby Tooth!” He calls as soon as he can drag enough air past his lips. Scrabbling frantically across the ice, a distant part of him realises dully that he hasn’t felt this graceless and ungainly since his first half-century of life. It’s as though he has lost a limb and needs to relearn the feel of his own body, readjust to the new balance. Beneath him, his arms and legs begin to shake – he can feel the North wind curl around him in concern but it feels muffled, somehow. He knows that he’ll never be able to fly like this, but maybe Baby Tooth can still get away, find Toothiana and warn her of what is coming.

When he finds her, he loses all hope of that possibility. Her wings are crumpled and already beginning to freeze – she’s curled in on herself, trembling so violently that he fancies he can hear it. She manages to stammer something softly, but Jack is still not familiar enough with the nuances of her language to make it all out. Carefully, he draws her close to his chest and flinches violently when she sneezes and shudders harder.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, his voice a wretched, cracking thing. “All I can do is keep you cold.”

He pauses and sniffs slightly. He can’t cry now. “My family, I couldn’t even,” he has to stop as his voice finally gives out on him. A moment to gather himself, and he tries again. “I can’t do anything now, I can’t protect them. What good am I?”

At that, Baby Tooth shakes her head viciously, scolding him even as she crawls unsteadily into the pocket of his hoodie. He can feel her rummaging around, sorting through all of the little trinkets that he keeps there until she finds what she must have been looking for. Glowing warmth spread across the skin of his stomach, and he cries out in shock. How could he have forgotten about the tooth box, about the cause of his foolishness? As he grabs it out of his pocket, he can feel the strange warmth spreading into the tips of his fingers, mimicking a human touch. It is a pretty thing, he supposes, and it doesn’t seem nearly impressive enough given all that it may contain. He strokes careful fingers over the lid, tensing when the warmth sweeps across his skin, accompanied by a light that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, and

_“Jack!” She laughs, beloved face creasing in amusement, eyes forced shut by the size of her smile, and_

_“Come down from there!” Their mother scolds, but her voice is warm and gentle, worried for his safety but never truly angry, and_

_Telling stories around a campfire, even the biting chill of winter not enough to dampen his spirits, though his feet are bare and his cloak ragged, and_

_She is growing so fast now, and Jack’s hand-me-down boots that are still too big for her are more stitches than leather, but they are better than nothing and he doesn’t mind going without until they can afford more, and_

_His mother and father call on him more and more to help around the farm, and he is happy to do it because the evenings and the midday heat are still his own time, to do with as he pleases, and_

_He’s been spending less and less time with her, so he agrees to take her skating before the cold snap breaks and the ice grows too thin, and_

_It cracks, and_

_Olivia screams, and_

_He falls, and_

_Thinks_ no _!_

_And she is older now, and he doesn’t recognise her, but her children hear his stories, they know his name, and a day spent out on thin ice has him in a panic he doesn’t understand, and_

Jack wakes up.

He is breathing hard, gasping deep, unnecessary lungful’s of air. His gaze flits around wildly for a moment before coming to rest on Baby Tooth. Her face is solemn, head tilted inquisitively, as much like a bird as he has ever seen, bright plumage stark against the disturbed snow. He manages to open and shut his mouth silently before he finally gains control of his own voice.

“Did you see that?” He asks, and he feels – he doesn’t know how he feels. Delighted and angry and hurt and sad, all at once, all vying for his attention. Baby Tooth shakes her head in vehement protest, her message clear; this is something private, something for Jack to share only if he chooses.

“I protected her, I _saved_ her!” He crows – even now, he can remember the fear as he went under that it hadn’t been enough, that Olivia would follow him into the water. But she had grown old, had built a family of her own, and he had been there to witness it, even if he hadn’t realised just how significant that was. It would have meant the world to her, knowing that he had been there to watch over her children. In her own way, he supposes, she believed he had; it was, after all, tales of his life that she had raised Will and Mary on.

But just looking out for them wasn’t enough. He has stood by his family – _his family!_ – for more than two hundred years, and they need him still now.

Throwing himself forward, he catches hold of the fragments of his staff. Wind howls through the chasm in encouragement, their voices twining together into a single roar, ready to sweep him up into their embrace once again. He doesn’t know what to do, but he fixes the ends of the staff together, gritting his teeth in concentration. Baby Tooth has tucked herself into his hood and watches him with singular focus; he places a hand carefully against his skin when the ends slide apart. Fixing Jamie, Sophie, Anna, every generation of his family in his mind, he tries again, drawing on the strength that he remembers from every human he has ever watched over. He asks them now for their hope, their dreams, their memories, their wonder, and reaches deep within himself.

There is no need to open his eyes to see that it is working, but he somehow can’t help himself. Tendrils of his frost, delicate and beautiful, have curled down over his hands, sealing the wood together until he could almost be convinced that it had always been whole.

“Winds!” He cries, triumphant and joyous. “Take me home!”


End file.
